


Just Another Future Song

by jld_az



Series: Just Another Future Song [1]
Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: (So much banter), (because it's the 70's), (but also they're kinda superhuman?), Banter, Blood and Injury, Canon Parallel w/ Copious Artistic License, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smoking, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23570866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: There’s something about Shadow Earth, it seems...Meanwhile, two people meet. A one-night stand becomes a mutual fascination. Eventually, plot finds them.And all of this is just the beginning.Titles from[1] 'The Gene Jeanie'[2] 'Cracked Actor'[3] 'Life on Mars?'[4] 'Moonage Daydream'[5] 'The Man Who Sold the World', and[6] 'Diamond Dogs' by David Bowie
Relationships: Martin / Ariaunna (OFC)
Series: Just Another Future Song [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696642
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Strung Out on Lasers and Slash-back Blazers

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried for a long time to come up with an "elevator pitch" for this, but keep failing. So in a nutshell: If you're familiar with Zelazny's CoA series, this story runs canon-parallel to Corwin's books, with divergence based (mostly) on personal re-interpretation. So AU, I guess? IDEK. Like I said, I'm bad at this part.
> 
> I tried to leave timestamps where appropriate (sometimes directly, sometimes not) but ICYMI: this fic is set primarily on Shadow Earth, from July 1977 - October 1980.

Warehouse 99 was a hole in the wall outside Burbank with cheap beer, dank bathrooms, and a permanent residue underfoot that sucked loose shoes off three steps through the door. In the late 70’s it was non-existent compared to clubs like the Whisky, Troubadour, and Starlight Lounge; but the dance floor was huge, and the stage hosted more than its fair share of LA Punk: The Damned and The Weirdos, Negative Trend and X. The energy was raw, kinetic, on the verge of Kubrick’s ‘ultraviolence’. Its nihilistic nature drew misspent youth like moths to the flame, and set them to burn.

Aunna had always appreciated unrepentant self-expression, and Punk offered a counter-culture superior (by her estimation) to the cocaine-and-excess disco mainstream of the time. She assumed the name Kate Rozenberg and embraced the scene with verve; wore her hair bubblegum pink, or aquamarine, or electric blue; stood unflinching amid careless elbows and flailing arms within sweat-shower range of Darby Crash; rioted with the miscreant masses at the Rainbow in London.

And spun up as she was in her own little rebellion against King and Duty? Yeah, she stomped feet, threw fists, raged and seethed and ‘fuck you’-d with the best of them. It was glorious.

This particular night started not unlike many others in the grand scheme. She bummed a cigarette off a stranger as she entered, motioned to a passing waitress for a drink, and settled into a seat at one of the tall tables mid-club while, around her, the small entourage she’d gathered prattled on about such world-shattering issues as which of the Ramones they’d rather bend over for. The debate, which had begun in the parking lot, was devolving quickly to include all manner of obscene gestures.

“Kate,” one of them barked. Aunna acknowledged with a tilt of her head and they continued, “Better bang: Dee Dee or Joey?”

“Bowie,” Aunna replied with authority around a mouthful of smoke.

The group paused as one, thinking she’d misheard at first, then splintered off into another debate: David Bowie or Iggy Pop.

Aunna snorted - thinking _Why choose when you could probably join in?_ \- and took a hearty swallow of her pint.

* * *

Martin would later admit that the first time he saw Aunna, in July of ’77, she was “scorching hot and completely untouchable”. From his seat at the bar he’d watched her mercilessly shoot down at least a dozen guys before the last - obviously inebriated and acting with his nether-head - refused to take “no” for an answer. His groping attempt to change her mind had resulted in a well-placed knee to the groin that dropped him to the floor, where he doubled up in the fetal position cupping his balls in agony. The group with her let out a mighty cheer. Men nearby cringed in sympathy but didn’t make a move to help. Martin choked on his beer in a stifled laugh.

“Okay there, pal?” the bartender asked, offering up a napkin. His patron waved it off with a smirk and wiped his lip with the back of a hand, the other reaching for his smokes.

“‘Though she be but little’,” he said, “‘she is fierce’.”

The bartender stared back confusedly, then glanced across the room as he pitched a couple empty bottles into the bin. His expression turned enlightened.

“You must mean Kate,” he said.

“Five and change, killer boots, green drapes?”

A definitive nod. “That’s Kate.”

Martin tapped his Winstons on the bar absently, looking again at the woman and her table of cohorts. Something about her kept striking a chord — like he’d seen the face before, or known someone with similar features. But then he’d travelled Shadow quite a bit since walking the Pattern, so perhaps he’d run into a version of her Out There, somewhere. When the bartender clanked the side of his beer bottle with a full one in question, Martin glanced at him, jerked his chin to the affirmative as he shook a cigarette up out of the pack, and resumed watching the table.

“Careful, man,” the guy said as he set the new bottle down and moved off. “That fox got teeth.”

Martin made an acknowledging sound as he simultaneously pinched the cigarette between his lips to draw it out, and fished a lighter from his hip pocket. He watched Kate lean back and tap the shoulder of the guy behind her. There was a brief exchange of words, and a bit of a laugh. When she faced the table again she was taking a drag off a cigarette of her own, and the guy was shaking out a new one for himself. Then she rested her chin in her hand, and settled once again into following whatever crude conversation her party had moved on to.

Or affected that she had. Impressively well, actually.

He flipped the lighter open and shut a couple times, an idle fidget. No, he decided, there was more than just the structure of her features that was familiar. She possessed a sense of constant awareness that he knew to his bones: Not _exactly_ the same as his, and certainly lacking the harassed undertone he associated with street life — it read like the by-product of a military upbringing, a nurtured alertness rather than a fretful one.

But like called to like, and her presence kept drawing him in; had kept him politely declining other advances as he surreptitiously watched her for a while.

So in that respect, the end result was inevitable.

It made sense that, when he finally struck the flame and ducked his head to use it, a well-timed glance up would catch her watching him back.

* * *

There was a guy at the bar who had been clocking her, off-and-on, for the better part of an hour: Sandy blonde, pleasing profile, lean torso clad in a well-worn button-down with up-rolled sleeves. Young, maybe mid twenties; pretty, but not effeminate. He occupied his space with the casual sort of confidence she found attractive, and had distinguished himself among his peers by the simple act of _not_ sending her a drink.

And she hadn’t _started_ the evening with the intention of getting laid…

But he really _was_ nice to look at, and she suspected his mouth could do _very_ pleasant things, and yeah maybe the continued arguments over the sexual prowess of this rocker compared to that (complete with explicit speculations) had burrowed in and made sway.

He was also clearly interested, but wholly self-possessed in his appraisal. She kept catching him shifting his attention away from her, and was mildly impressed with how smoothly he employed the technique. When he lit the cigarette he’d drawn between his lips and glanced up to meet her gaze - bright blue eyes flashing in the flame - she let it happen, and made no secret that he’d caught her attention. When he clapped the lighter shut and offered her a slim smile, her eyes narrowed coyly and she winked at him in return: _Game on_.

Casually, he turned away from the room at large, reaching for his drink. They made eye contact via the barback mirror, and he tilted the bottle toward her reflection in salute before taking a sip; saw him drop his eyes with a smirk, shoulders moving in a chuckle when she pointedly snagged a passing waitress for a fresh pint of her own. Eventually the group around her shuffled off to dance, and she waved them away absently. She’d only taken on their company for so long to keep up appearances, really; and this slow-burn flirtation she’d engaged in was proving _much_ more interesting.

Except then he was on the move, weaving an easy path through the crowd and heading toward the back.

Aunna finished her drink, and stood.

* * *

Martin exited the men’s room to find her standing in the hallway. He halted mid-stride, lit cigarette pinched between his lips as he wrung his slightly damp hands together, and checked her out.

Now that he had a good view without the distraction of flashing lights and passing bodies, he would have laid money down that she was an athlete of some sort. She was all lean muscle on a light frame, with strong shoulders and well-defined arms, balanced hips and firm legs. He could picture her doing martial arts; something quick and sporty, like Tae Kwon Do, or Wushu. She acknowledged his once-over with one of her own, and smiled. The effect was striking, and softened the line of her jaw so that he had a hard time placing an age on her.

“Hello,” she said, slow and low and smokey. He responded in kind, the cigarette bobbing.

“Hello.” Stepping forward to let someone pass behind him, he took a drag and, on a whim, offered it to her. After a pause, she accepted and took a long pull.

“So,” she said as she exhaled to the side and handed it back, “who do you belong to?”

“Nobody,” he replied.

The space between them hummed electric. The speakers crackled as Patti Smith’s cover of _My Generation_ hammered fast and wild through the din. She tucked her green hair behind her ears with a grin that broadcast her intentions clearly.

“That’s convenient.” Reaching out, she slid a hand under his shirt, her cool fingers brushing against the hot skin just below his navel as she took firm hold of the waistband of his jeans. “I’m Kate.”

He complied willingly as she settled against the wall and pulled him toward her, slotting him between her thighs. “Martin.”

Cupping the cigarette behind his back, he braced himself with an arm over her head as she nodded once, her free hand threading into his hair. She licked her lips, watched his eyes track the motion.

“Now _that’s_ out of the way…” And left it at that, drawing his mouth to hers.

The entire exchange was smooth with the ease of commonality. Eventually he dropped the cigarette in favour of touching her, his fingers kneading their way down to her haunch, digging in, hitching a knee up so he could crowd further into her space; and then she was grinding against him hungrily, her boots adding necessary inches to make her just the right height for his fingers to-

One of them groaned. Someone whistled. Another voice cursed at them to ‘get a fucking room and stop blocking the goddamn john’. She broke off irritably to glare over his shoulder. He didn’t move; his lips were so close to her neck, he could feel her accelerated pulse through them.

“I’m up the street,” he said, slowly releasing her leg.

“I’ve got a car,” she growled back.

Ducking under his arm, she pointedly palmed the front of his jeans as she slipped free, and headed for the back door.

* * *

The vehicle in question was a ’66 Karmann-Ghia Coupe: malachite green, with a convertible top. It was parked at the back of the lot facing a side street, shrouded in darkness.

They made out violently against the side of it while she fought with her keys, paused long enough to climb inside, then resumed with the passenger seat half reclined and her straddling his lap. Fingers and hands, lips and tongues and teeth; breathy moans and sharp inhalations fogged the windows until, sweat-slick and panting, she combed his hair back from his face and examined him in the ambient light.

Aunna was impressed in spite of herself. Most guys would have blown a nut by now and lost her interest, or lost their patience with her and become aggressive — at which point she’d have decided if getting off was really a priority above teaching them a lesson.

But this guy…

It was becoming clear that the limited space was inhibiting them both.

“So,” she said, leaning back against the dash to admire the picture he presented; the deep blue of his gaze, the swell of his lips.

“So.” He watched his palms slide up her thighs, under her hiked-up skirt.

“So some people’s definition of ‘up the street’ from here is Reseda,” she continued, eyelids lowering. “How far is it for you?”

“Victory and Parish.” His fingers traced the crease where hip bent to leg. Her skin raised goosebumps and she sucked air through her teeth. He chuckled lowly. “Close enough?”

“Could be closer.”

He slid a thumb into the cleft between her legs, and she mewled when he pressed down. She curled forward, fingers clenching in his hair, lunging in for a kiss even as her body arched away from him. He withdrew his hands, but continued to maul her lips with his own until she sank down onto his lap again.

Limits had been found however, and soon there was an unspoken agreement that in order to fully enjoy this, they’d have to take it someplace else. Aunna reached behind her to release the convertible top and dismounted, exiting the car. She felt hot, wet, and deliciously on edge. Martin adjusted seat and self, his eyes following her as she rolled back the roof to the hot summer night. When everything was squared away, she settled into the driver's seat and opened the glove box.

“Victory and Parish?” she confirmed, pulling out a slim wooden humidor and flipping it open, offering it to him.

“Beggars and choosers,” he replied, fishing his lighter out of his pocket with one hand, while selecting a hand-rolled brown-papered cigarette with the other. “You?”

Aunna didn’t take people home as a rule. She guarded her privacy fiercely, and really didn’t want to deal with the questions most flings would ask: Was she just some rich man’s daughter playing at Punk? How much smack did she deal to afford such nice digs? Who was she starfucking to pay the rent? Shit like that.

But something about his casual tone made a civil answer natural, so while she was picking out a cigarette for herself, she replied:

“Topanga.”

He hummed an acknowledgment as he lit up, but didn’t seem inclined to ask a follow-up question. She used the flame off his lighter when he held it out to her, then returned the humidor to its hiding spot and started the engine.

The radio blasted _Breakdown_ at them. Martin sprawled into the corner of the passenger seat and the door as she shifted into drive.

* * *

The trip should have taken less than ten minutes, but a long red light at the I-5 underpass was an opportunity for more necking and, thoroughly distracted, it turned green and was ignored twice before another motorist leaned on their horn at them in passing. Lurching, Aunna cursed and gunned the engine as the signal turned amber. Martin laughed. After a feigned scowl, she did too.

They talked little beyond “next left” and “right here”, eventually arriving at a squat, 30’s-style bungalow flanked by aging olive trees. He got out at the top of the drive to open the shed, shoved some things around to fit her car, waited while she cut the engine and stepped out, closed and secured the doors as she assumed an alluring lean against the wall.

Martin paused to take in her disheveled hair, her rumpled attire, her kiss-swollen lips, and the slow upward curl of one brow. As he watched, a corner of her mouth quirked to mirror it, and her eyes flicked to the side, indicating the house. He lifted his chin in confirmation, and cut across the sparse lawn to the back entrance, idly flipping his keys around his index finger as they walked.

“It’s cute,” she commented.

He chuckled and unlocked the door. “Thanks.”

He saw her note the exits once inside - reflexive, not concerned - and then she was pressing up into him without hesitation, eyes bright, hands first cupping the nape of his neck and then curling into his hair and tugging. His head tilted back, and her flattened tongue made a broad, wet stripe along his carotid.

“F-f-fuuuuck,” he groaned, the F a stutter, and the U a drawn-out sound. He felt her smirk against his jaw.

“That _is_ the plan, yes?”

He responded with a throaty growl and looped an arm around her middle, pulling her flush against him and walking swiftly backward into the main room. When his legs hit the back of the sofa, he swung them around, hands sliding hotly down her hips and hitching up the hem of her minidress. He quickly worked his fingers into the band of her underwear; slid the garment down over the swell of her ass, and followed its descent to kneel at her feet.

She hummed an appreciative sound when his teeth grazed her exposed hip bone, released her hold on him to cross her arms and pull the dress off overhead, pitch it aside. Bare but for her stockings and boots, she cast her eyes downward with uninhibited want, and deliberately perched on the back of the sofa, let her legs fall open, hooked first one knee and then the other over his shoulders.

And then his teeth were in her thigh, and nibbling up her thigh, and buried between her thighs, and she was gasping, clutching the sofa white-knuckled and so swiftly spiralling upward that when his fingers finally slid into her, they barely moved before she broke with an inward wail. Sweat drenched and euphoric, she rode out the aftershocks on his tongue, eventually managing a breathy:

“Jesus _fuck_.”

He settled down on his haunches, and fixed her with a look that was borderline smug.

“You,” she said, and was mildly shocked by the rasp in her voice; swallowed dryly and tried again. “You are wearing entirely too many clothes.”

He _definitely_ smirked then, and extracted himself from the bracket of her knees to stand up, reach back to take hold of his shirt between his shoulder blades, and pull it forward over his head. He balled it up in his fists and carelessly tossed it aside, eyes on her throughout.

“Better?” he asked, arms extended in a T, putting himself on display.

She raked her fingers through her hair to clear the view, tilted her head, then reached out her left hand and ran her nails roughly down one pectoral. There was a sharp intake of breath when one caught on his nipple, and he flinched in reflex but didn’t pull away, so she caught the hardening flesh between the V of her second and third fingers, palming the firm muscle entirely.

“For now,” she purred. Then leaned forward to lathe her tongue over the other nub.

His fingers combed her hair, gathering it in a fist at the base of her skull, clenching and releasing when her teeth made brief contact, mouth falling open on a shuddering exhale. She let out a pleased hum in return, and sat upright to admire the view. A slow flush had made its way down his torso to blend with the subtle marks she’d nipped into him, and his breath had quickened notably under her ministrations, and he was _clearly_ straining hard against the confines of his jeans.

But his eyes, when he fixed them on her, were alight with a devastating restraint. And suddenly she'd never wanted to conquer something so badly in her life.

So she stepped down from her perch, and shoved him back toward the opposite wall, her left hand moving to his belt when his shoulders made contact, deftly unbuckling the clasp and the button and the zip before sliding inside and gripping him. He was thick, and rigid, and so warm in her palm.

She stroked; once, firmly. His head tipped back against the wall with a dull thud and his next exhale was on a moaned “god _damn_ ” and, oh, if that was what he sounded like now, she couldn’t wait to hear what he would do when she got her mouth on him.

Her lips captured his again, tongue licking in as she peripherally worked to get him out of his jeans. He hastily toed his boots off and shuffled to assist, kicking the discarded denim aside and then thrusting up into her hand eagerly when it wrapped around him again. He threaded his fingers in her hair, held her head almost possessively, fed her his muffled whines until she pulled back and forged an open-mouthed trail down, down—

There was no preamble. She took him to the root in a single motion, and she’d been right: The sound he made was exquisite. His hands, so careful before, tightened in her hair almost viciously, then flew away in self admonishment, thumping loose-fisted against the wall instead. She ran her palms up his thighs, his hips, his ribs; turned her gaze up through her lashes, and watched him register her actions as trying to get his attention. Then she deliberately moved his hands back to her hair, an obvious permission.

His brows lowered, eyes darkening when her tongue coiled along the underside of him, and wrapping her green tresses around one fist he gave an experimental thrust. When she groaned wantonly and her eyes slid shut, he did it again, again. Time suspended in the hollowing of her cheeks, and his careful demeanor fell away until he was reduced to base need, throat full of sounds he never knew he could make even as he filled her throat with his release.

She let him slip from her lips with a sigh when he finished, and coyly thumbed a corner of her mouth, savoring. For several moments all he could do was stare at her, breath heavy, mind fogging and then focusing sharp in intervals with his pulse, knees sagging and grateful for the wall at his back.

“Guh,” he eventually croaked, and looked as startled at the sound of his voice as she had at her own earlier. He laughed then, covering his eyes with a forearm while the other hand tugged lazily at her hair. “‘Jesus _fuck_ ’ is right.”

She chuffed, and he lifted his arm to watch her rise to her feet, ran the other hand down from her head to her cheek, to her neck, to her breast; dropped the arm from his eyes to wrap it around her shoulders and draw her close, tasting the bitter salt of himself when they kissed, languid.

Languid, but not sated. He was barely soft, and she was a smoulder of nerve endings beneath her skin. Soon her teeth were pulling at his lower lip, and she was hitching a knee over his hip to slick him to full hardness with her soft wetness; rolling her hips through a breathy command of:

“More. Now.”

His responding growl lit her up, and when he adjusted his hold and turned her to the wall, she crossed her ankles at the small of his back without hesitation, leather boots sticking to his damp skin while her shoulders braced tacky against faux stucco.

There was a brief pause while he slithered a hand between them, angled himself toward her entrance, and then he was dropping his forehead to her shoulder and arching forward with a hiss. The string of filth she directed to the ceiling was punctuated when his entering thrust drove to the hilt, and forced the air from her lungs.

His left hand moved to brace against the wall by her shoulder, and his right slid to grip her ass in a quest for more leverage; dug into her fiercely enough to bruise as he assumed a driving rhythm. She curled her fingers against the wall and bore down on him, clenching. His mouth latched onto the jut of her clavicle and sucked hard. Her response was a full-throated gasp that shot heat down his spine. He snapped his hips forward.

Then reared back, cursing, when a pointed bootheel jabbed him in return.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he bit out, gaze following his right hand as it moved to intercept another stab. “These things are a menace, Kate.”

“They look fantastic, though,” she countered on a delicious undulation.

“True,” he agreed, hand sliding up and down her leather-clad calf, “but they gotta go.” He gripped her ankle and her motion stilled, eyes on him when the other hand coaxed her arm to hook around his neck. “Hold on.”

And then he was moving them, sure-footed, across the room to kick open the half-closed bedroom door and bend her to the unmade mattress. She tilted him an impressed expression at that, and he gave a castoff shrug in return.

And then there was a minute of miscoordination as they both attempted to untie the laces of her boots while maintaining full-body contact, and they were alternately laughing and annoyed before she finally shoved him away with an exasperated huff.

He flopped over onto his back, knees bent and feet on the floor, then rose up on his elbows to watch as she kicked the boots off, shredding her stockings in the process. Once free, she mounted him fluidly, sliding him in and pressing him down with authority, and as she set up a grind that rolled his eyes back he thought, absurdly, _Ah, equestrian_ , and was content to let her ride; and only occasionally bucking up into her.


	2. Crack Baby Crack, Show Me You're Real

Aunna woke with a start, lifting her head off the pillow and brushing her hair away from her face. The sun was shining brightly through the north-facing windows, but she had no idea what time it was, being fairly certain that they hadn’t even _found_ the bed until very near sunup. She smelled fresh brewed coffee, and heard music playing in the front room. Rolling over and propping herself on her elbows, she located a clock atop the dresser that claimed it was 9:16. Scrubbing her fingers through her sweat-tangled hair, she got up, taking the sheet and wrapping it around herself as she wandered in search of her things.

The last items to come off were the first to be found: Her boots and the tattered remains of her stockings were in a heap at the foot of the bed, which aside from the dresser was the only furniture in the room. There was a basket full of clothes by the bathroom door, and an acoustic guitar propped in the corner, but no pictures to speak of; only an impressive assortment of concert bills tacked to the pale blue walls. At a glance she found Led Zeppelin, Velvet Underground, Generation X, and The Clash (from LA, NYC, Cardiff, and Amsterdam, respectively). _Small world_ she thought, moving to the door. She’d been at three of those shows.

She’d seen some of the front room the night before, but got a better look at it when she stepped out now; found it equally Spartan with a sofa, coffee table, and recliner. As testament to his priorities however, the Hi-Fi stereo and LP collection took up the entirety of the longest wall, plus half of another. There were also two guitar cases stacked under the table, and a fishbowl overfull with ticket stubs in the centre of it. She located her dress, which was half-wedged between the cushions of the sofa, while her knickers and his jeans lay crumpled on the hardwood floor under a framed print of Dalí’s _Archeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus_. It had been knocked askew in their sexually charged disregard, and she straightened it compulsively as she moved on to the kitchen.

“Don’t you sleep?” she asked.

Martin made a small gesture with the mug in his hand as he lifted it to his lips. “Needed fluids.”

She smirked, depositing her things on the counter as she passed through. Her hand hovered over the keys by the door, and she cast him a questioning glance; scooped them up when he nodded, and walked out into the yard, striding to the shed without concern.

It was a much brighter space by the light of day, and here, too, was evidence of his love of music. A minimalist drum set stood on an irregular scrap of orange shag carpet off to one side, microphone stands and mini amplifiers stacked around it. And yet more concert fliers, but for local gigs like Crime at the Whiskey, and The Germs at the Orpheum Theatre. She leaned over the passenger door of her car to retrieve her cigarettes, and walked back to the kitchen.

“Nice shorts,” she said, returning the keys to their peg. He glanced down at his striped skivvies.

“Thanks,” he replied. “Nice toga.”

“It needs washing.”

“You don’t say.” He watched her shove her things to the side and lift herself up to take a seat on the counter. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Setting down his mug, he pulled a clean one out of the cupboard and poured her a cup. It was thick, dark, and smelled like roasted wood chips. She thanked him, and offered one of her cigarettes in trade. He accepted, and resumed his casual lean against the sink to smoke it.

“So, Kate,” he said nonchalantly, picking up his mug. “What happens now?”

“No idea,” she responded candidly. “I don’t usually fall asleep, and in the rare times I do I’m _usually_ the first one up.”

“Certainly easier to cut out that way,” he nodded. She made an affirmative sound into her mug. “Ever have that go poorly?”

“Only once,” Aunna replied. He raised an eyebrow and, feeling generous, she added, “He got over it.”

There was a break in the music as the album ended and the turntable reset itself, starting over. _Still don't know what I was waiting for, and my time was running wild, a million dead-end streets and-_

“How about you?” Aunna lifted one heel to rest on the countertop, the sheet draping between her legs as she leaned back against the cabinets. “Have all your flings left peacefully in the morning?”

“Every one,” he boasted. “But then, you could say I have A Type.”

She blinked slowly at him. He took a drag off his cigarette and tilted his head at her. After a brief pause she conceded with a smirk.

“The difference here,” he continued, “and I'm aware this is going to sound like a line, but I’m hoping you’ll be merciful and not knee me in the groin-”

“Now that I know what you can do with it?” Aunna looked scandalized. “I wouldn’t dare.”

He turned slightly pink, but chuckled. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem.” She gestured, “Please continue.”

He met her gaze, unflinching. “Don’t think I have to, now.”

She studied him for a long moment, then said, “We should go somewhere for breakfast first.”

He grinned into his mug. “Absolutely.”

* * *

Except for the waitress, the cook, and a couple of elderly Hispanic fellows seated at the counter, Rico’s Diner was empty: the morning commuters had long gone, and the lunch rush was a good two hours away. Showered and dressed, they sat across from each other in a booth near the kitchen, and ordered enough food to sustain a small army. Their conversation seemed never-ending; it veered off topic and doubled back at whim, a complete contrast to the minimalist exchanges of the night before.

“I don’t date,” she said emphatically in response to a comment on her relationship status, spearing a forkful of eggs with gusto. “It’s a waste of time, really, since the whole point of it is to eventually get married and make sprogs.”

Martin motioned for a refill on his coffee. “Oh, come on,” he said with humour. “What kind of woman doesn’t like _weddings_ and _babies_?”

“ _This_ kind,” she replied.

“Bullshit.” He smiled beatifically at the waitress as she clucked at him for his language. “You never played Here Comes the Bride with an erstwhile friend? Never thumbed idly through the Montgomery Ward bridal catalogue? Never walked into a cathedral and thought, ‘Wouldn’t this be a lovely place to get hitched’?”

Her left shoulder moved in a shrug. “It’s not my thing.” She washed down a mouthful of toast and egg before continuing, “Not that I have anything against the institution per se — my parents had a great marriage, far as I could tell…”

She shook her head then, trailing off. He waited, eyebrow climbing curiously. Finally she looked at him.

“I’m all for personal growth and change, yeah? But I’ve known too many people who were expected to make _huge_ adjustments, _just_ for marriage, and that’s fucking _absurd_.” She frowned with disdain, her conviction evident in concluding, “My will is my own and I’ll be keeping it that way, thank you very much.”

Martin was nodding in more than agreement even before she finished. He chewed and swallowed before asking, “And kids?”

Aunna turned her attention back to her breakfast with a sigh. “Should I be concerned that you’re asking?” she asked, tone long-suffering but far from worried.

“If you must,” he replied. “Although, before you make a decision, I should tell you that infertility runs very high in my family. For what it’s worth.”

“Good thing I protected myself, then,” she assured. “We Rozenberg women are regular Fertile Myrtles. But to answer your question, I like kids best when they’re someone else’s. I don’t think I’m the mothering type. My goal is to someday be an Awesome Aunt.”

Martin grinned. “I’ve got one of those,” he said, cutting into his sausage links. “Brothers or sisters?”

“Brother,” she replied. “Younger. He’s a Ranger. Special Forces.” She picked up her coffee. “You?”

“Only child.”

“Parents still around?”

“Never met my dad,” Martin said. “Heard a lot of stories about him; none of them meant to be flattering. My mom really liked him, though. She committed suicide when I was three.”

Aunna watched him over a forkful of ham, mildly stunned by the frank openness of his reply. Not sure where to go with it, other than, “Do you remember her at all?”

“Vaguely.” He poured syrup atop the heap he’d made of the sausages. “I remember she was sad more often than not, but she’d have her good moments.”

“And the ‘Awesome Aunt’?”

He smiled again, albeit ruefully. “The demilitarized zone between my grandmother and me.” Martin glanced at her, shrugged, and returned to his meal. “It’s a long story.”

She mimicked his motion, and didn’t object when he changed the subject. They talked instead about music and movies and the general joys of youth; discovered they both travelled extensively, knew bands and frequented clubs the other had only passing knowledge of, and had somehow managed to attend several of the same events without crossing paths before. Occasionally he’d brush up against a topic that she’d answer with a lukewarm response — usually something to do with where she’d been before California (she had a slight accent that became more pronounced as he listened for it, which he couldn’t quite place but was hauntingly familiar). He tried to bait her out with sub-par responses of his own, but she was too keen a verbal sparring partner to fall for the feint.

Eventually they’d picked their plates clean and, as the place began to fill up around them with the lunch crowd, agreed with sly comments and not-so-subtle glances that they were fully fuelled for another go-around. Martin got up to pay the check. Aunna reached into her pocket to cover the tip, tugging at the fabric of Shadow to conjure up the cash she’d left in her other clothes-

Something violet white flashed at the corner of her eye, and she froze: arm contorted behind her, backside lifted awkwardly off the vinyl seat. She scanned the café quickly for the source as, at the register, Martin’s head turned slowly toward her.

* * *

“Everything good, sugar?” the woman at the register asked as he stepped up to pay.

“Yes, thank you.” Flipping out a handful of bills, he skimmed a ten off the top and gave it to her, toggling a toothpick out of the nearby dispenser while she made change.

“Want a coffee to go?” she inquired, holding out the cash.

Martin, suddenly distracted by the feeling that someone very nearby was using Pattern, shook his head.

“No, thanks.” Cautiously, he looked around.

Kate was staring at him, green eyes wide. He saw her mouth one word-

“ _Shit_ ”

-and then she bolted for the door.

Without thought, he tore off after her, shouldering unapologetically through the incoming foot traffic while the waitress hollered after him about his change.

He had no idea if it was worth chasing her — she had a good head start on him already, and by her reaction was not too happy to find out that, amid so much else, they also had _this_ in common. Yet his feet carried him out the door without slowing, and he cut the corner by vaulting over the rail into the parking lot-

-only to leap back against the building to avoid being smeared across the hood of her Karmann-Ghia as the vehicle screeched into the street and sped from view.

Martin stood there a moment, stunned.

 _Well that explains a lot_ , he thought: The stamina of the previous night, the voracious appetite today, her reluctance to talk about where she was from, that accent he couldn’t quite place. And now he was _positive_ that she’d mumbled something in his native tongue in her sleep when he’d gotten up to make coffee…

A decade spent wandering, and he’d never met another of his own kind before.

Now he has, and she's completely blown his mind, and ditched him at a diner in North Hollywood.

* * *

“Fuck!” Aunna wrung the steering wheel and shouted again. “Fuck!”

The driver in the next car looked at her in alarm, and changed lanes.

 _Years_ , goddamnit. She’d gone _years_ without running into anyone in Shadow she hadn’t intended to. And now, in the wake of her refusal to acknowledge Oberon’s betrothal of her to some unknown Lord of Chaos, she meets this _guy_ that-

“ _Fuck_!” she bellowed a third time. She bore in across traffic to catch her exit from the 101, barely tapping the brakes as she slingshot around cars on the ramp’s shoulder, and zipped through a yellow-turned-red light at the bottom. Horns blared. She ignored them.

Had Oberon sent him, or Swayvill? She ground her teeth in frustration, cursed at herself for not taking a moment to figure out which side of Reality he hailed from before bailing, and folded Shadow at an underpass to put a little more distance between her and the diner.

Bottom line: Only someone Real could have kept up and worn her out like he had. And that should have been her _first_ clue. Clearly she’d gotten complacent, and deserved to be run out of her favourite indulgence for a bit.

Aunna stopped at the house just long enough to gather a few things, walked into the hall closet and walked out of the tack room in the barn at the bottom of the hill. She whistled shrilly, and from the paddock outside heard Sagr’s whinny in response.

The golden bay gelding met her at the gate, eyeing her curiously as she gave him a quick whisk and saddled him up. She strapped her saddlebags down next: a change of clothes, a canteen, her trump deck, and her tobacco pouch were all she’d bothered to grab. Without an extra packhorse handy, she’d have to manipulate Shadow for anything else she needed as she went. The bedroll went on top, Feüermede’s hilt protruding from the left side.

As she slung the bridle off her shoulder, Sagr stiffened and lifted his head high; eyes and nostrils wide, ears pitched forward. His rider did not hesitate, but went straight for her weapon. She drew it, and spun the point around to face the barn.

“Who sent you?” she demanded of the figure standing there.

“Nobody,” he said.

“Was it Oberon?” She slid one foot back, better centering in case he charged, and took quick stock of her surroundings. “Someone from Thelbane?”

Head tilt. “Still nobody.”

“Who _are_ you?” Beside her, Sagr blew out a rough, rattling snort in emphasis. “How the _fuck_ did you _find me_?”

“Still Martin,” he said, now looking thoroughly bemused, “and I dialled the operator, asked the listing for Kate Rozenberg in Topanga.”

His candid response tripped her up, and she found herself suddenly mirroring his confusion. She lowered her sabre slightly.

“Who are you _Really_?” she asked, in Thari, with emphasis. Because he certainly didn’t _act_ like someone Oberon would send to fetch her for her transgressions, but as she observed him once more through the Pattern's Image she saw that he, too, was from the Order side of things…

“Martin, Prince of Rebma,” he replied in the same, reaching into his pocket. “Not that the title does much for me.”

He pulled out his cigarettes, taking his eyes off of her long enough to light one, and now memory was crowning — scuttlebutt she’d overheard in Malwain during her last visit home, about Prince Random siring a bastard child on the Crown Princess of Rebma; later learning from Tristan that the girl had-

“You’re Queen Moire’s grandson," Aunna stated. Once it was out there, she could see the resemblance clearly. Martin nodded all the same.

“And you’re Kaitlyn Ariaunna Rozenberg Barimen, Duchess of Kolvir.” When her sabre lifted again, he held up his hands and quickly added, “Didn’t know until now. Had time to think about it on the walk over.”

Weapon down, expression incredulous. “You _walked_ here?”

“You don’t date. I don’t drive.”

She was effectively stunned to silence. Confused by her sudden change of demeanor, Sagr repeatedly kicked the ground with one hind foot, and then lunged irritably at the wooden fence, tearing a chunk off the edge of the nearest plank. The action snapped Aunna out of her stupor, and she barked a reprimand at him in Deigan. The gelding turned his head away and sulked, but kept an eye on the stranger by the barn.

She did some quick math. If his mother died when he was three, and he’d walked the Pattern around the same age as everyone else-

“You’ve certainly made good use of your time,” she said at length. “Pretty worldly for a New Boot.”

“I have no idea what that means,” he admitted.

“You’re, what? Twenty-five, -six?”

“Technically,” he agreed. Then stated, “You’re not.”

She failed to repress a smirk. “Nope.”

His shoulders rolled dismissively, then he rested back against the open barn door and lit his cigarette. Sheathing her weapon, Aunna assumed a similar pose against her horse’s shoulder, and folded her arms as she regarded Martin again.

“So you walked the Pattern, when? Three, four years ago?”

“Ten.”

“Bullshit,” she scoffed, and Sagr snorted. “Who was your Mentor?”

“Didn’t have one.” When her eyes continued to narrow in disbelief, Martin heaved a sigh and added, “Look, I don’t exactly get on with my family, right? And I wasn’t joking when I said my title isn’t much use. In Rebma, a Prince is only as important as the woman he’s married to, and I got sick of being bartered. So I left.”

Silence hung heavy for a long beat. He was obviously waiting to see if she’d protest, but how could she? Hadn’t she just made a similar assertion regarding free will over brunch?

Her initial shock over, in fact, Aunna decided she was less worried about her blown cover, and more curious to see where this went. So she moved closer, straightening Sagr’s forelock on the way by, and folded her arms over the top rail of the fence. Martin kept his distance however, and as the silence stretched on she watched him expectantly, eyebrows arching in unspoken query.

Reading her correctly, he shook his head. “I’m finished freaking out if you are.”

She laughed, and jerked her chin toward the barn.

“Keys are hanging behind the feed bin,” she said. “Take your shoes off in the hall. I’ll be up in a minute.”

He smiled slowly, ground out his cigarette, and walked away.


	3. A Godawful Small Affair

It wasn’t dating.

They fucked. A lot. Sometimes quick and rough; sometimes hot and dirty. Occasionally they went out to eat afterwards.

But it wasn’t dating.

Aunna fascinated him. She was enigmatic, aristocratic, fearless and capricious. If she had a mind to do something, she did it, dissention be damned. She’d disappear for days on end, without warning; and then show up on his doorstep at two in the afternoon, four in the morning, quarter of ten. She had a razor sharp wit, could be outspoken to the verge of mean, and was crude as any soldier when the mood took her. But she was also given over to spells of silence where her thoughts hung heavy as a shroud, and as much as he’d want to inquire about them he never would; because he knew the tenuous foundation of their arrangement, such as it was, was built on the fact that he _didn’t_ ask.

For her, Martin was a partner of near-equal stamina with a special talent for ringing her bell. He was also smart, honest in a (sometimes darkly) amusing way, a damn fine musician, and excellent company to kill a weekend with. But he left her alone when she avoided him, and had the decency of self not to drop everything the minute she showed up unannounced for a tumble. He didn’t suffer in her absence, or sulk when she didn’t want to do something he did, or get prickly when she kept things to herself. He led his own life, had his own friends, and did things without consulting her first. He didn’t ask questions when she’d been gone for a week, or feel compelled to volunteer information if he did the same.

No strings. No drama. It was perfect.

A suspension of their ‘perfect’ arrangement was called in late October: when Aunna woke up to a [trump call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980609/chapters/57681616); and Martin woke to a pair of jeans landing on his head.

“You gotta go,” she said on her way by. “RFN.”

He reached up groggily and pulled them away, propping up on one elbow and scrubbing at his face with his free hand as her shadow vanished into the en suite.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She returned wearing bulky wool trousers bloused over soft-soled camel hair boots, and a knee-length wool coat buttoned snugly from waist to throat, belted with a wide leather girdle. The slacks were pale brown, the coat bronze with embroidered sienna accents, and he could see the collar and cuffs of a dark green blouse beneath. Her hair was a sun-russett brunette that actually looked natural, and she was tying it up into a complicated turban with a length of translucent bone-white linen. He watched her disappear into the closet without a glance in his direction.

“Oh-kay.” Throwing back the sheets, he stood up and slipped into his jeans while, out of sight, she tossed boxes around. “Am I allowed to ask?”

“Yes,” she called out as the thumping stopped. “But you’ve been so good about _not_ asking, why ruin your perfect record now?” She emerged with the headdress in place and a sheathed dagger in her hand, long and curved, which she buckled to the girdle on the left.

From anyone else it would have been a cutting remark, but he saw her smirk and took it as she’d intended. Locating his discarded Pink Floyd shirt, he pulled it over his head as he sat back down on the bed.

“Bad news from the home front, I take it?”

She muttered something in what he’d come to determine was Malwainese, which he was still picking up and therefore only partially made sense of. So when he gave her a long, puzzled look in return, she translated;

“Over the timber cart in brass monkeys.” Aunna picked up and buckled her sabre to the hip opposite the dagger. He blinked at her, and she stared through the wall a moment before adding, “I never realized how strange that phrase was until now.”

Martin chuckled, toeing his boots out from under the bed and pulling them on. She was on the move again, this time exiting the room and crossing the hall. He heard more banging as he laced up.

He’d come to expect certain things from her over the months; he knew she was prone to walkabouts, and suspected on more than one occasion that the time she spent with him was a distraction from something unpleasant she was avoiding. But this was the first time she’d made a point of kicking him out before leaving, and his curiosity finally got the better of him.

“Seriously,” he said, stepping into the hallway just as she passed by, headed for the kitchen. She’d added a rucksack to the ensemble - weather-worn olive green canvas, densely packed - which she carried in one hand. Martin fell in behind her. “What’s going on?”

“ _Really?_ ” She gave him an incredulous look over her shoulder. When he gave her an _I asked, didn’t I?_ expression in return, she rolled her head away and continued coolly;

“Corwin just made an appearance in Amber, which wouldn’t mean shit except he’s been incommunicado for the better part of sixty years, and a lot of us thought he was dead.” Her rucksack hit the floor beside the refrigerator with a dull, heavy thud. “He took a stab at the Prince Regent and then trumped to who the fuck knows where, so Eric’s in a snit and locking down the Golden Circle. If I don’t go make peace with him now, I’ll end up in exile.”

Opening the door, she scanned its contents with extreme prejudice, and began unceremoniously tossing items into the garbage.

Martin leaned against the counter and shook out a cigarette, asking, “Weren’t you already?”

“No.” Without looking, she thrust a jar of pickled almonds toward him. “You want these?”

“Not especially.” It was a weak deflection, and he wasn’t keen to be deterred from his line of questioning, especially since she was actually answering him. “And the fancy getup?” She was dressed like a gypsy Sikh from the Ottoman empire, which was decidedly _not_ Amber Court garb.

“Everyone thinks I’ve been in Deig’a.” Aunna let the door swing shut, and nudged the bin with her toe as she hefted her rucksack again. “Do us a solid, will ya?”

Unlit cigarette between his lips, Martin lifted the can and held it across his back by a hand over the shoulder. He followed her out of the kitchen and directly into the feed room.

“You and your shortcuts,” he chuckled, depositing the trash by the barn door as Aunna gathered her tack and carried it into the aisle, sounding a shrill whistle through her teeth. “So let me get this straight-”

“Best you didn’t,” she interjected, continuing out into the yard. “In fact, unless you’re looking to get pulled into the suck, I’d suggest laying low for a bit. Eric will be securing allies and rounding up the strays, and your dad’s apparently on Corwin’s side.”

Martin stopped short in lighting up. “ _I don’t know my dad_ , remember?”

“Won’t matter to Eric. He’ll play whatever card he can make of you.”

Her horse met her at the gate, snorting and pawing as he rolled his large eyes at the man behind his mistress. Aunna dropped her rucksack on the ground, and crawled through the slats to tack him up.

“Any suggestions on how long I should keep my head down?” Martin maintained his distance, having gotten the impression early on that the horse wasn’t particularly fond of anyone but her.

Aunna made a small shrug as she cinched up the girth. “None whatsoever.” She paused, looking at him curiously. “Did you ever sit for a formal trump?”

He shook his head. “No. My Pattern Walk was on the QT, and I haven’t been back since.”

“You might be safe, then.” She returned to her task.

“I’m sure _you_ did, though.”

“You'd be correct.” She shot another glance at him. “But I don’t have a spare handy, if that’s what you’re angling for.”

He smirked. “Guilty, but I’ll get over it.”

She finished securing the horse’s bridle, and opened the gate to lead him out. He danced sideways on his toes, the tassels of his traditional Deigan barding flashing in the sun. She gave him a long rein, hefted her bag of gear up onto her shoulders, and approached.

“Any idea when you’ll be back this way?” Martin asked as she drew close.

She shook her head and plucked the cigarette out from between his fingers, rolling the cherry into dust before reaching into her coat.

“No, but I’ll drop by when I am.” She handed him her tobacco pouch, explaining, “Plenty of this where I’m headed.”

He smiled appreciatively. “Better parting gift than pickled almonds.”

She kissed him then, her mouth hot and sweet, and he could taste the desert on her; the cinnamon spice scent of her clothing was heady. The action lingered, the stillest she’d been all morning, and he risked pulling her closer to prolong the moment, parting her lips with his tongue. She gave an inch, licking past his teeth in reflexive interest, then resisted and eased away. He let her go.

“I think I just developed a thing for Deigan women,” he joked.

“Talk about a line that’ll earn you a knee,” she replied with a small smile, wiping his lower lip with her thumb.

Then she moved toward her horse and, after belting her rucksack, reached up for the saddle. Martin watched her gather and pull, lifting herself with complete control onto the tall horse’s back. Once she was aboard, the gelding wasted no time in leaving: he bounded sideways with a loud snort, pirouetted to the east, and leapt into full stride. The pair merged with the rising sun, and were gone.

* * *

It was the solstice of the following summer before Aunna returned: in passable favour with the new King, secure in the knowledge that her brother would keep her in the loop, but suddenly discontent with living in California. Months in Amber had meant time in Malwain, and as she rode through the bleached scrub grass and yellowing palos verdes of a drought-ravaged Hondo Canyon, she realized that, as much as she liked her little ranch in Topanga, she’d missed the towering oaks and rolling green hills of her mother’s homeland more.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon when she dropped Sagr off and changed into something more 1978. She drove east, folding Shadow around her on the interstate to spot-check locations. She put the top down, turned the radio up, and smiled into the sun, revelling in the freedom the past few months of Court life had denied her.

By the end of the business day she’d signed papers on a restored plantation home in Keene, about thirty minutes southwest of Lexington. It was massive, easily more room than one person could possibly need, with a six-horse barn and 50 fenced acres. But she was used to certain comforts, and saw nothing wrong with inhabiting a four bedroom, two-and-one-half bath place on her own. Especially when it had such great sightlines.

Thus satisfied, she drove back to the Pacific coast to make good on a promise.

Martin’s house was locked and dark when she pulled into the drive around midnight. Knocking elicited no response, so she let herself in through the back door. The place was mostly as it had been, minus the instruments and plus a new set of speakers; but it had the dusty smell of having been shut up for a while, and there was nothing in the fridge to suggest he’d been there in several weeks.

Figuring he’d taken her advice to heart and left to wander Shadow in her absence, Aunna scrawled a dirty limerick on a scrap of paper, dated it 21 June, folded it into an origami pony, and propped it up on his stereo where he’d be sure to see it when he got back.

* * *

A girl with mousy brown hair sat down at his table and stared at him curiously.

“Do I know you?” she asked when he looked up. “You seem quite familiar.”

Martin shook his head, and continued to roll his cigarette. “I don’t think so, sorry.”

She was not dissuaded. “No, I am sure I have seen you before.” She rested her chin in her hand, eyes narrowing in thought over her freckled nose. “Have you ever been to The Rusty Nail?”

“Sure he has, doll.” Martin smiled wryly and tied up the tobacco pouch as the man he’d been waiting for spun a chair around, and straddled it beside him. The wood creaked in protest under the bulk, but held him up. “If you wouldn’t mind peddling your wares elsewhere however, my associate and I have business to discuss.”

The girl looked confused as the new arrival shooed her away, but eventually got up and left. Martin put the cigarette between his lips and lit it.

“Thanks, Rex.”

“Anytime.” The burly fellow rubbed a palm across his shaved-bare head, tugged at his overlong beard, and motioned for a round of drinks. “So how’ve you been, Marty? Long time no see.”

“Good,” he nodded, then smiled a little inwardly. “Been real good. You?”

“Can’t complain.” Rex grinned at the waitress as she set a couple of beers on the table, and admired her as she walked away, but his expression sobered once she was gone. “Wish I had better news for you, though.”

Martin frowned behind his glass. “Go on.”

“Nobody’s seen the guy you’re looking for in months,” he replied. “Last account I can find of him was sometime before the Windrider’s Festival last spring. After that, he dropped off the map.”

There was a long silence as the two made dents in their beverages, broken at last by Rex adding, “Sorry, man.”

The other waved him off. “Don’t sweat it, Rex. I had a feeling he’d skip out sooner or later. Guess I was banking too heavily on ‘later’.”

“He owe you money?” Rex asked. “I can keep some of my guys looking if he-”

“No no,” Martin laughed, “nothing like that. Thanks, though.”

“Sure thing, Marty.” Rex slipped off the back of his seat and turned it right side forward. “So, you wanna sit in for a set?” He thumbed toward the trio of guys on stage, busily setting up instruments and amplifiers.

Martin briefly considered declining – he had no reason to stay in Texorami right now; Random had moved on, and apparently been gone for some time - but Rex chose to interpret his thoughtful silence for assent, clapping him on the shoulder fiercely as he picked up his drink and moved toward the band.

“Put another mic in the amp, boys!” he bellowed.

They cheered.

Martin ordered more beer.

* * *

Several hours later, he said goodnight to the band and claimed his ride from the valet. He mounted up, gave the nameless pinto a chirp, and trotted across the city limits into darkness.

He shifted Shadow.

It was chilly, and the night air felt good on his warm skin. The grasslands spread out from horizon to horizon without interruption, lit by a limpid moon hung low in the sky, full and round as a woman’s breast. He had a pleasant memory, smiled, and shifted to another location.

There was a pressure building up at the base of his skull as grassy plains gave way to patchy forest, then abandoned seaside retreats. He dropped the Pattern’s Image and waited for it to pass, but instead he was confronted by the slightly faded figure of a red-haired man, dressed all in green, that manifested holographically in the air before him.

He eased his horse to a stop, baffled. The man smiled at him genially.

“Good evening, Martin,” he said, in Thari.

“Hello,” Martin replied warily, thinking, _This is a trump call._

“It is,” the stranger confirmed with a nod. Then, “Please, don’t be alarmed,” he added hastily. “I’m delighted I was able to successfully construct one based only on secondhand knowledge.”

“And you are?” _She warned me about this_ , he thought; then, remembering that the stranger had already caught and responded to a previously unspoken observation, wrangled his inner monologue. Besides, there was something about the stranger’s expression Martin didn’t like. It felt wrong; his eyes didn’t match his smiling face.

The man made a self-chastising sound, and tapped himself on the forehead. “My manners. Of course.” He held out his other hand, “I’m your Uncle Brand. I’ve been hoping to make contact with you.”

Martin did not accept right away; rather he asked, “Why?”

“Academic curiosity, mostly,” Brand answered distractedly, withdrawing his offered handshake. “I have long wondered if it were possible to draw a trump from the memory of others, instead of relying on a live subject. And now I know the answer is, with persistence, ‘yes’.”

“I see.” Martin heeled his horse forward again, still wary but less frozen by it. The ghostly projection hovered at pace. “Congratulations?”

Brand laughed, and sketched a small bow. “Thank you, nephew.”

“Still doesn’t quite explain why I’m the lucky subject, though,” Martin pressed.

“Ah.” Brand made a face like a landed fish. “Yes. That. Well…” And he passed a hand over his throat, looking a little pained. “There was concern that, lacking a Mentor, you may have completed your Pattern Walk but then become stranded in Shadow with no understanding of how to use it. I offered my services, as an Artist and a Prince of Amber, to do what I could to locate you; your grandmother the Queen gave me leave to pursue the possibility.”

 _Well, shit_ , Martin thought. _Of_ _course_ _she would. I’m still a commodity, after all._

He saw Brand’s expression go commiserating, and chided himself. Communication like this would take getting used to.

“If you’d rather,” his uncle said, “I could tell Her Majesty that you didn’t survive the initial Walk..?”

Martin actually felt his face sour at the thought of faking his death to avoid his family forever, and then laughed because wasn’t that what Corwin had apparently done these last sixty-odd years?

“No, uncle. Thank you,” he responded, still chuckling, and shaking his head for emphasis. “If you could let them know I’m well however, and quite capable of managing myself, but that I’m not ready to come back yet, I’d be grateful.”

“Of course,” the illusion nodded, sharing his laugh.

The strangeness that had bothered Martin before was gone from Brand’s eyes, and as they talked the young Rebman began to suspect that his first impression had been hasty. His uncle was charming, if a bit high on himself for lengthy conversation. They exchanged generic small-talk while Martin rode for a while, and when at last Brand deigned to end the call, he again offered Martin his hand.

“Pleasant journeys, nephew,” he said.

This time, Martin accepted with a smile. “Thank you, uncle.”

Everything happened so fast.

Too late, Martin saw the manic grin twist Brand’s face into a sneer of delight as his fingers closed around the younger man’s wrist. Martin’s world blurred into shades of silver and blue as Brand pulled back and, at the same moment, jabbed upward with the blade hidden from view in his right hand.

Steel penetrated skin. Martin cried out.

The horse, startled by the sudden jerking motion of its rider, leapt sideways and back, twisting the knife into snapping a rib as it exited, but also severing Brand’s connection. Martin was jolted up onto the pinto’s neck, and over the other side as the horse continued to panic. Bright pulsars of light exploded behind his eyes as he hit the ground, hard.

The world went dark.

* * *

Summer turned to autumn, faded to winter, and Aunna settled into a quiet routine at the Keene house quite in contrast to the one she’d lived in Topanga. Gone were the wild hair and the all-night club scene. She made her first honest attempt to contribute to society since the Suffrage, using her skills as a horsewoman to carve out a lucrative business for herself by buying thoroughbreds off the track to retrain and resell. She had lunch with people like Lana Dupont and J. Michael Plumb, became a common fixture on the backside at Keeneland and Churchill and Turfway Park, held a membership and was a licensed trainer with the National Hunt Society. She was respected in the equestrian circles but far from famous, exactly as she liked it.

The first snow of ’79 fell and faded without fanfare in mid-February and, as an early spring took hold, locals breathed a collective sigh of relief that there’d been no repeat of the previous winter. Mornings came on thick with dew and fog, covering her acreage in mellow gold that dissipated with the rising sun and left lush bluegrass in its place. Foals began dotting the hillsides of neighbouring properties; Sagr watched them cavort in the evening shade with rapt curiosity, galloped along the fence with neck craned high for a better view while Aunna sat on the front porch with a cold beer and the day’s Herald-Leader, listening to AM talk radio or – if the wind was just right – the migrant worker’s music from the next farm over.

She spoke to her brother often enough to feel informed, but not so frequently as to give the impression she was worried about events in the One True City. Tristan’s reports were thankfully mundane, and they’d kill some time in reminiscing before duty would rear its head, and he’d be forced to sign off.

She heard nothing from Martin, but couldn’t _quite_ bring herself to admit that she missed his company enough to go searching the multiverse for him.

Spring passed into summer. The dog days settled in.


	4. Busting Up My Brains for the Words

Hot. He was hot, and his eyes were threatening to boil in his head. His mouth was parched, and his tongue across his lips felt like sandpaper; yet his breath made plumes of vapour above his nose that could be seen against the starlight, and he could not feel his fingers or toes. The earth was cold. He continued to swelter.

Where was he? Why was he lying on the ground in this state? Slowly he turned his head and tried to dredge up a memory-

Bells rang, lights flashed, and the sky swam swiftly to the right. He retched, curling reflexively, and a raging pain burst through his left side as the rib protruding from his skin tore another jagged inch and bled anew.

He remembered.

Suddenly the pain took a backseat to something more primal: Terror. He had to move, and he had to do it now, before Brand came looking to finish the job.

It was an agony unlike any he’d ever known: sharp, pulsing, and ever-present. He grunted like a rutting beast, biting down on the cries that would bring the carrion eaters calling, and managed through no small effort to get to his knees, then one foot, then both. He swayed like a drunkard, and made an eyes-only search for his horse, clenching his left side in a meagre attempt to stabilize the injury. Stood pitching and yawing in the moonlight for some time before deciding that, even if the pinto _did_ come back, the chances of him getting into the saddle were fast slimming to none.

He considered his situation as best he could — knew he desperately needed an ally, someone that would shelter and protect him until he was well again. He immediately thought of Aunna, and made a short-lived attempt to get to her before remembering she was in Amber. He considered Rex, only by that point his head was swimming in psychotropic influence, and he couldn’t get a fix on his destination; kept finding himself wandering through unfamiliar places, rife with fever dreams.

He ended up in the proverbial middle of nowhere, with miles of creosote-coated slat-rail fences as far as he could see. It was a little after sunset by the red glow to the west, and he could make out the lights of a barn about a mile away. With one last effort he willed the world to give him a friendly traveller, and then his body simply gave out.

Martin staggered into a swale off the side of the road, and collapsed face down in the muck.

* * *

The cicadas were out in force as the sun dipped below the horizon, and Aunna was leaving the barn when she saw a pair of headlights wending a hasty path up the drive. Mildly concerned by the speed of their approach, she picked up her pace and altered course to intercept. Sagr trotted the fence alongside her, nosing the wind curiously.

The vehicle was a Ford-style wagon with Arkansas plates that did not belong to anyone she knew. The driver was male, late 50’s, with wispy grey hair peeking out from under a flat cap. Beside him, and leaning half into the back seat, was a woman of like age in a floral-print dress. Aunna saw a smear of blood on her cheek when she looked up.

“Excuse us,” the man called through his open window as the car came to a halt. “We need to borrow your phone. It’s an emergency.”

“Of course,” Aunna replied, pointing toward the barn. “Just left of the door, in there.”

The man shifted the vehicle into park, and cut the engine. The woman started to protest that they should just drive to the hospital because-

“-the bleeding,” she said, brow furrowed in concern. She leaned again into the back seat, adding, “Russell, it’s not-”

“Just talk to him, Carol. Keep him talking.” He climbed out and, with an abrupt thanks, jogged briskly toward the barn. Sagr eyed him as he passed, but did not leave the scene; he continued to sniff the air.

“Was there an accident?” Aunna asked, moving close enough to see what was going on in the back seat.

“We think he was hitchhiking,” the woman said. “He’s been stabbed, or hit by a car. We found him on the side of the road, there.” Her gesturing hand shook violently, and her eyes were glassy with tears. “What sort of horrible monster would _do_ such a thing? He's just a _boy_ …”

Aunna attempted to get a look at the injured passenger through the window, but it was too dark to see anything without the interior light, so she opened the back door to activate it-

Martin, coated in blood and reeking of ditch runoff, was stretched out awkwardly on a quilt covering the vinyl seat. Dazed, he blinked his half-lidded eyes at her, and attempted a smile.

“Oh hey,” he said.

What little colour was left drained from his face at that, and his eyes rolled white. He lost consciousness.

Aunna moved fast. First, she killed the phone line from the barn; the last thing she needed was a slew of Shadow medics showing up with a whole lot of unanswerable questions, and she doubted they would be able to do anything for him that she couldn’t. Next, she placed a hand on Carol’s shoulder and, though she hated to do it, commanded her to forget the hitchhiker and go to sleep. The woman slumped into the corner of her seat with a peaceful sigh, and snored softly. Aunna wiped the blood off her cheek before leaning into the back seat to examine Martin.

There was a definite stab wound to his left side, an upward thrust between the fifth and sixth ribs which had snapped one of them out through the skin. The wound had soaked the quilt maroon and continued to pulse blood, leading her to believe that the weapon had nicked an artery and, based on his shallow breathing, punctured the lung. She frowned.

“What did you get yourself into?” she asked his unconscious form. Casting a quick glance toward the barn, she climbed partially into the back seat, wrapped the blanket around him more securely, gripped where she could, and pulled him out of the car into a fireman’s carry. At the fence, Sagr snorted violently and galloped away.

Aunna quickly moved Martin into the house, folding Shadow to deposit him upstairs before Russell abandoned the barn phone and came looking for another. She returned to the car and examined the front end. After a moment she located a safe enough spot and, turning her back to the vehicle, let loose with a kick to dent the front bumper. She hastily smeared some of Martin’s blood from her hands across the impact point, and then headed for the barn.

The man was shouting as he jogged back up the hill. “It doesn’t work! Is there one in the house?”

She met him part way, shaking her head. “If the barn’s line is out, so is the main line,” she said.

“We’ll have to take him to the hospital ourselves,” he stated, heading for the car. “How is he?”

“You mean the pup?” Aunna took hold of his arm as he passed by. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

The man rounded on her and, suddenly, there hadn’t been a young man in the back seat at all. It was a young Shepherd, black and tan. It’d darted across the road and, with the light patchworked by sunset, he’d struck it. There was nothing he could do.

“There was nothing I could do,” he said, apologetically. “Was he yours?”

“No,” Aunna shook her head again. “But I appreciate you bringing him to me. I’ll see that he’s taken care of.”

“Carol will be so upset,” he continued, resuming his path to the car. “She loves dogs.”

They examined the damage done to the front end of the wagon, and determined it was strictly cosmetic: He wiped it with a handkerchief and said he would take a hammer to it in the morning. Carol woke up, mildly distraught at the dreadful news but grateful to have slept through it. The couple thanked Aunna for her time, and she assured them she would explain if anyone came looking. The wagon circled the drive and departed. Hands in her rear pockets, Aunna stood waiting until the taillights were gone from the driveway, then bolted into the house.

Martin was just as she’d left him — sprawled out on the floor of the master bathroom, unresponsive. He was feverish and gaunt, with a milky blue pallor that gave her concern. As she washed her hands she torqued the fabric of Shadow, and produced from the linen cupboard the instruments she would need: a sterile bucket, nitrile gloves, scalpels and sutures and iodine scrub.

It had been some years since she’d worked on another person, and the bathroom was far from an ideal location for emergency surgery; but she’d worked in far worse conditions as a battlefield medic, and by the look of him there was no more time to waste. Showing little concern for the sanctity of her white tile floor, Aunna dove right in, removing his shirt with a pair of scissors and tossing the shredded remains into the claw-footed bathtub, where they landed with a meaty slap.

The wound was deep, and as she cleaned it began to ooze fluid rapidly, giving off a smell faintly like melted tar. It was not blood, although there was certainly blood mixed in it; and it was not an infection…

Aunna rubbed it between her gloved fingers and took a cautious sniff. Her sinuses instantly began to burn; her eyes teared up, and her gut wrenched with a visceral memory.

“ _sonofa-_ ”

She left the statement unfinished and stood up, stripping off the gloves and tossing them into the sink as she left the room, heading for the hall closet. Opening the door, she knelt in the threshold and lifted the panel disguising the floor safe. She toggled the dial right, left, right, left, and retrieved her trump deck from inside; then thumbed quickly to one of the few in a different artist’s hand.

“I’m calling in a favour,” she said as the link was established.

The girl with the mousy hair gave her a dubious look. There was a sudden racket from the bathroom, like Martin had spasmed and knocked over the bucket of instruments. Aunna leapt to her feet and held out a hand.

“Please,” she added.

A slow smile broke out on Dara’s face. “ _There_ is the magic word,” she said, accepting and stepping through.

* * *

Sound was first. Muffled and strange, it travelled like a bubble underwater weaving a path to the surface; a cacophony of disjointed syllables slowly cohering into cricket song as consciousness was finally secured.

Sensation followed, in a comfortably detached sort of way. He knew he was lying on a bed, and that the blankets covering him were clean and warm, but would be hard pressed to say who bed and blankets belonged to at the moment.

There was a breeze crossing him from the left, sultry sweet and heavy with the scent of fresh-cut grass and curing clover. He opened his eyes and squinted at an unfamiliar ceiling with a slowly rotating fan. The room was shadowed in dusk, but as he cautiously turned his head, pieces of the décor stood out and brought him peace of mind. He smiled.

Under the blankets, Martin carefully walked his right hand over himself to the left side, where it brushed up against a raised patch of adhesive dressing. His fingers traced the medial edge of it cautiously, then the lateral, proximal, and distal. There was tenderness, but no heat or searing pain. He took a few steadying breaths, and sat up. The room swam slightly, and he shuffled himself to lean back against the headboard with eyes closed, willing the world in his head to be still. When he was confident that all was well, he folded back the blankets to examine Aunna’s handiwork.

The left side of his torso, from nipple to hip and 'round to his back, was suffused in radiating shades of yellow to indigo; the bandage covering the wound just behind his pectoral stood starkly white against it, a small dotting of pink near the centre. For a brief moment he considered peeling it off to have a look, but decided it would be better to wait for her, just in case.

He could hear her through the open window – not the words, just her voice - talking to someone whose side of the conversation he could not make out. As the translucent curtains blew back with the breeze, he saw acres of rolling fenced grassland stretching down to the distant road; a ridge of trees along the horizon limned in the last gold of sunset.

And there she was: walking alongside her horse toward the paddock nearest the house, a hand in his mane to guide him. Her voice drifted up again as she opened the gate, and the horse walked through, turning back to hang his head over it as she secured the latch. He butted her with his nose, then rested his chin on her shoulder. She laughed, and reached up with both hands to scratch behind his pointed ears. The horse leaned into it and grunted happily.

Martin’s cheeks lifted in a smile to see the usually stoic animal relent to her attentions; tried to recall a time when he’d observed them together like this, from a distance, and realized he hadn’t before now…

…yet he felt he had. Because he could very clearly picture them playing follow the leader, and tag; saw her stretched out on his back while he grazed in the afternoon sun, or curled up against his neck on the floor of a buckskin yurt. He somehow knew she’d bartered fiercely for him as a yearling, and that the Deigan Tribe she’d traded with held her in high esteem for keeping to their traditions in raising him; that his name – Sagr - meant ‘a shadow pocket in the sand’, and that she called him her Sodelavec, which was some sort of honorific.

But none of these facts had come out of conversations they’d had before she’d left for Amber, which left him wondering how he’d learned them.

As the sun disappeared below the horizon, horse and rider parted ways on mutual agreement; him picking up a long smooth trot with his tail up like a banner, and her walking casually toward the house with hands in her back pockets. Martin reached over carefully and turned on the bedside light, glanced briefly at the leather-bound copy of Kipling’s _Kim_ half-hidden by a throw blanket on the seat of the nearby chair, then settled back against the headboard with his eyes closed.

“You really shouldn’t be sitting up on your own, you know.”

She must have used one of her shortcuts, because he never heard her come up the stairs. Martin quirked a sleepy smile.

“Well, my nurse wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and I got tired of staring at the fan.”

She huffed a mirthless laugh, and he opened his eyes just as she disappeared into the en suite. He raised his voice over the running tap.

“How long have I been out?”

“A couple days, give or take,” she called back. “It was pretty touch and go for a while, but I’d say you’re on the mend now.”

The faucet shut off and she returned, crossing the room to the far side of the bed with a glass of water pinched in one hand, and clean bandages in the other. She looked good: dark hair pulled back into a long braid, faded jeans and a black Blondie shirt hugging her curves. She stopped short of the bedside and looked down at him, one eyebrow raised.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just admiring the view.”

She rolled her eyes and handed him the glass, the pills she'd concealed in her palm. “Not while you’re convalescing,” she said. “I’m not a fan of doing the same needlework twice, savvy?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He identified the pills at a glance, and popped them into his mouth; drained the glass’s contents in one go and passed it back. She put it on the nightstand and took a seat on the edge of the bed, facing him.

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she set the change of dressing on his lap. “And please, try to keep it pertinent.”

He considered the question as her fingers pulled up one corner of the bandage, watched as she peeled it away.

“A little groggy,” he said. “No pain, really. Just .. numb, I guess?”

The sutures holding the wound closed were perfect little X’s, about forty of them total following the jagged dark red ridge. Aunna hummed and nodded, taking hold of his left arm and lifting it straight out to the side before palpating the area around the site as a trained physician would.

“That’d be the narcotics,” she replied, “which is why I said you shouldn’t be sitting up unassisted. You could pop a suture and not know until it was a bleeding wreck again.” Satisfied with her findings, she lowered his arm and picked up the fresh dressing. “Any tightness in your chest? Shortness of breath?”

Her tone curtailed the response he was about to give — something along the lines of how he wouldn’t know until he’d had a proper workout. There was a crispness to her words, and a purposefully focused way about how she performed her task that made him think she’d put it lightly when she’d called his condition ‘touch and go’. So he left it at a murmured “no”, and examined her face as she applied the new bandage, noting the tightness of her jaw, and the faded remnants of a bruise under her left eye.

“Run into something?” he asked, pointing to it.

She shook her head, tore a strip of medical adhesive off the roll and affixed the dressing in place. Martin frowned, but even as he did his brain called up a fragmented memory of her trying to restrain him, urging desperately-

 _Look at_ _me_ _, Martin! Look!_ _Look_ _!_

-and then the full force of his elbow connecting with her face.

He cringed. Her hands pulled away quickly.

“Did that hurt?” she asked.

“No,” he said, barely above a breath. Then, “Sorry I hit you.”

“I’ve had worse.” Her task finished, Aunna abruptly gathered the soiled bandage and stood.

Without thinking, Martin reached out and seized her wrist. She froze, and looked down at his hand sharply, but did not immediately pull away. Instead, her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, flat and guarded.

The sight of her black eye had shaken something loose though, and what he remembered left him little doubt that had he not found her, or had she chosen not to aid him when he did, he would well have snuffed it…

…but the level of gratitude and affection he felt for her at that moment robbed him of the words to express it. So he let her go.

She picked up the empty glass, and headed toward the door.

“Bathroom’s there if you need it,” she said as she moved, indicating with a quick gesture. “Radio’s in the armoire. I’ll bring you something to eat soon as I figure out what we’re-”

“Ariaunna..?”

His voice was tremulous; raw. She stopped at the threshold and stiffly turned toward him.

“Thank you.”

It sounded lame even as it came out, but given the circumstances it was the best he could come up with.

He watched her eyes go through a riot of reactions in scarcely a breath: She was wary / skeptical / curious / bemused.

But then she looked pleased. Tired, yes. But pleased. She stepped backward into the hall with a thin smile.

“You’re welcome, Martin,” she replied, weary and warm, then turned and departed.

* * *

“Hnnnn-”

Aunna looked up from her book and tilted her head, waiting. Silent moments passed, then:

“Hnnn _nn_ _No_.”

She marked her place and stood, setting the novel on the corner of the nightstand as she moved to the bed.

Martin was sound asleep, but his face was not slack in rest; she saw his furrowed brow, his tight shoulders, and knew he was dreaming about the attack again.

She sighed sympathetically, and resigned herself to another sleepless night. Because the drugs she had could dull the pain, but couldn’t stop the nightmares from coming.

Cautiously, she settled atop the blankets next to him; slipped an arm under his neck and shuffled him up close to her right side, his head on her shoulder. He struggled a moment, mumbling incoherently, but as she ran her fingers into his hair he stilled against her and was quiet once more. Aunna stared at the ceiling.

“My first horse was a Malwainese Cob named Dervish,” she began, voice low. “My Uncle Charles gave him to me for my sixth birthday…”


	5. We Spoke of Was and When

Summer held on stubbornly that year, finally giving in bitterly to autumn midway through October. At first Aunna divided her time equally between training her new acquisitions and looking after Martin; but as he regained his strength and took more of an active role in his own maintenance, she passed more hours with the former than the latter and, as a consequence, sold two of the four in less than a month.

Meanwhile he made himself at home, by her insistence, and in doing so vastly expanded her LP collection. He offered to move into one of the other bedrooms so she could have the master suite back. She declined on the grounds that he needed the accessibility of the en suite, in effect giving him a little shit for getting injured in the first place, and relocated herself instead — yet he often woke up to find the passenger side pillow still warm with her impression in the morning.

The road to recovery was not without its setbacks. Twice in one week his sutures had to be repaired when he overreached his limitations (oh the mocking grief she’d given him for that), and he still had nightmares, although they were less frequent and _far_ less violent. But his bruises faded, the ribs healed, and in the end all that remained was a jagged length of raised reddish flesh on his left side, from fourth to sixth rib, that itched like nobody’s business.

Martin examined it curiously in the bathroom mirror after she’d removed the stitches, lifting his arm over his head and watching how it moved when he twisted at the waist.

“It’ll be there a while,” she said from the doorway. “Possibly forever.”

Martin met her gaze via the reflection. “Still better than the alternative,” he said, arm dropping. “Besides, don’t chicks dig scars?”

“If the story’s good,” she replied with a smirk.

“Rescuing orphaned kittens from a burning building?” He grinned cheekily as he left the mirror. “Saving an old lady from a runaway trolley?”

She laughed and held up her hands. “Hey, if you don’t want to tell me-”

“No,” he cut across her, suddenly quite serious.

She fell silent, one eyebrow arching as she lowered her hands to her sides. The word had come out more harshly than he’d meant it to however, and as he slid past her into the bedroom he ran a hand down her arm and added in more tempered tones,

“I’m not ready to go into that yet. Savvy?”

“No skin off my ass,” she replied, catching his hand when it reached hers, and giving it a small tug. He halted with a chuckle.

“That’s a new one.” Coiling his fingers with hers, he tugged back.

“Really old one, actually.” Her resistance was brief; she allowed herself to be towed along for a few strides before looping around him and walking backwards. “But that’s the fun of colloquialisms, right? They migrate at whim, come in and out of style just like everything else.”

“And that one?” He pulled the clip out of her hair and pitched it aside. The dark mass fell in soft waves down her back.

“Murnese, I think.” She watched his fingers work on opening the buttons of her shirt, his lips curling up coyly. “Possibly Deigan.”

“So you don’t know?” he teased, hand sliding beneath the fabric to cup her breast, thumb stroking idly over the peak of it.

“Don’t rightly _care_ at the moment,” she breathed, eyes fluttering closed, head rolling to the side in an unspoken invitation to continue. It’d been nearly two years since Topanga, and she .. _god_ how she still lit up under his touch.

He took the cue, dipped down to brush his lips below her ear, just behind the hinge of her jaw. Her hand released his when the back of her legs met the mattress, hooked into his belt loops to slot him snugly against her pelvis instead, and moved in a lazy upward parabola. He laughed lowly against her skin.

“Missed you, too,” he said.

“Been here the whole time,” she replied, sotto voce.

Words barely above a whisper, yet clipped and precise:

“Not. Like. This.”

It was strange, the melting feeling that statement - that delivery - pooled in her belly. By no means offputting; just a breath of rarified air that she’d never partaken with him. But his intent was so genuine, surrender was easy in the face of it.

His actions were measured, thoughtful. His palms ran up under her collar, over her shoulders, eased the fabric away to pool at her elbows. He lifted first one breast and then the other to his lips, a ghosting breath bringing her nipples to points and drawing out a near-silent gasp that he swallowed with a kiss as he stroked the nubs beneath his thumbs. She extracted her arms from the shirt and wrapped them around his neck, angled her head and curled her fingers into his hair — longer than it had been, but still soft at the nape like baby fur.

He tilted forward, and she let herself be eased onto the bed. Her fingers flexed when he walked his down her ribs to the button of her jeans; released when he followed them with light presses of his lips; braced back on her elbows to lift her hips when he wordlessly pulled at her waistband and shucked the denim off in a slow unveiling; settled in anticipation when he cast them aside and…

She opened her eyes to find him standing between her knees, motionless. His blue eyes were dark and hooded, taking in every inch of her exposed form with such unfathomable desire that her mouth ran dry, and a modicum of modesty she didn’t know she possessed flared a blush down her chest.

He lifted one hand, thumb crossing his bottom lip; a reverie. Her eyes tracked the motion, followed when he lowered it to flip open his fly, lifted again when he stooped to pull his feet free and lean into her space until she was cross-eyed, then drifted closed when he cupped her neck and ran that same thumb across her cheek before kissing her again. When his other hand lifted her leg, planted her foot on the bed, and his opposite knee came to rest by her hip, she took the cue and shifted further up the mattress until they were stretched out across it, making out in a lazy sprawl.

It was uncommonly tender, given their past exploits. She’d also never given up control like this, and now that she had he reveled in it; desperate to take her apart every way he knew how, in the most luxurious ways possible. His fingers wandered away from her neck and across her sternum, down her stomach to circle her navel. They combed the soft curls below, and when they pressed into the V between her thighs her mouth dropped open on a faltered breath; a strangled gasp of his name that made him groan, and twitch a wet smear across her hip.

He hooked an ankle over her leg, encouraging her to spread open, and resisted the urge to mindlessly rut against her when she acquiesced. Digits curled inside the hot, slick velvet of her, and he was only peripherally aware of the words spilling from his lips where they grazed against her shoulder:

“ _...god Aunna what you’re doing to me like this sweetheart it’s so fucking much…_ ”

Her breath had reduced to harsh, shallow panting; and one hand was clenching in his hair, the other fisting the bedclothes above her head. Her brows were knitted in an expression of exquisite need and damp with beaded sweat; and she was rolling into the press of his fingers with barely restrained urgency, chasing the release that was so so so close but-

Her moan was almost a sob; his name again, in hitching, elongated syllables.

He stilled. Withdrew. Moved to lie between her legs while slicking himself with what she’d left on his hand. Then he cradled her knee over one elbow, and pressed into her. Slow. Deliberate.

“Oh,” she choked out, eyes clenched tight. “Oh. _Yes_.”

Then, blissful: “ _Please_.”

 _Yes_.

 _Please_.

* * *

Afterwards they lay tangled in the sheets, warm and sated. Aunna nestled herself against his left side, shoulder in the crook of his armpit while he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers.

“So,” she said, tracing the scar tissue with a delicate touch.

“So.”

She craned her neck slightly to look at him. “So any tightness in your chest I should know about?” Martin burst out laughing as she grinned, adding, “Any shortness of breath?”

“I’ll give _you_ ‘shortness of breath’,” he growled, and rolled toward her.

* * *

As winter set in, so did the halcyon days.

There was no formal declaration of their relationship. No state-of-the-union discussion. No common adoption of pet names, or certain three-word exchanges. Rather his things slowly migrated east from Burbank, and her lifestyle adjusted to include him fully. Even Sagr got to the point where he’d walk the fence alongside Martin when he headed to the barn, instead of pinning his ears with a grunt and trotting away.

They devoted an entire twenty-four hours to ushering in 1980, beginning at 11:45 on December 31st with revellers at the Place des Cocotiers in New Caledonia, and then travelling west through the time zones before finishing three sheets to the wind at Vavau Beach on South Upolu Island. They rented a bungalow there and recuperated for a week; spent their nights trembling like a pair of lust-drunk collegiates.

“You know this can’t go public though, right?” she asked one morning, coffee in hand, her gaze out over the water.

Martin snorted, moving food around his plate. “Are you _kidding_?” he replied. “My grandmother would be _thrilled_ if she found out I’d been bumpin' uglies on the regular with a Duchess of Kolvir. I’m not saying _shit_.”

“Good boy.” His response drew up a memory however, and she added, “She married Random off, by the way.”

He choked on a half-chewed swallow. “She _what_?”

“Back while I was making good with Eric,” Aunna continued conversationally. “Apparently he, Corwin, and Deirdre sought refuge in Rebma at one point — something about Corwin losing his memory, and Deirdre thought walking the Pattern might help him get it back? I’m a little sketchy on the details there.” She paused for a sip of coffee, then, “Long story short, Queen Moire was willing to give them access to Rebma’s Pattern on the condition that Random be left behind for Crimes Against the Crown. Gave him quite a dressing-down too, if rumor serves. She sentenced him to marry one of her Court, and remain in her custody for a year, after which he’d be free to go.”

Martin reached for his cigarettes and sat back in his chair, breakfast momentarily forgotten. “I wish I could say I was shocked at the idea of her implementing ‘corporal marriage’, but honestly it’s right up her alley.” He shook one up, and pinched it in his lips, asking, “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“One of her Ladies, I think. Vialle?”

“Shrewd.” He lit up, took a hit, blew it out rough before resuming. “She’s what you'd call good oats, V. But she’s blind, so no proper suitor would have her. A marriage to a Prince of Amber, however short-lived, will elevate her status in Rebman Court, and make her a more suitable wife for someone else, should she choose to leave him after he's served his purpose.”

Aunna stared at him. Blinked.

“What?” he asked.

She huffed wryly and shook her head, setting her mug aside. “I forget sometimes that you grew up in it, same as me.”

“Just because I hate the game doesn’t mean I don’t understand how it’s played.”

“And you look a bit ridiculous proving it right now, to be honest,” she added, resuming work on her own breakfast. “Sitting there with your plateful of food, smoking, wearing nothing but your skin. Whatever would your etiquette maven say?”

Martin smirked and, cigarette between his lips, picked up his coffee and left; returned a few minutes later wearing a pair of jeans, and a silkscreened _Electric Ladyland_ t-shirt. He sat down, stubbed out his cigarette, and continued eating.

“That wasn’t necessarily a complaint, you know,” she said between bites.

“I know,” he replied.

* * *

Winter to spring, spring to summer, and Aunna received news from the home front that Corwin had escaped Amber’s dungeons and fled to Shadows unknown. Under order of the King, she was to report any contact with the fugitive Prince straight away, and be prepared to receive instruction.

 _As you command, Your Majesty_ , she said; _I understand completely, General_ , she said; _What the fuck, Tristan_ , she said; _Corwin, you magnificent bastard_ , she thought.

“Busy morning?” Martin asked as she entered the kitchen. He’d covered the island counter with an assortment of deli items, and was assembling a sandwich roughly the size of his head. Aunna took a seat on one of the tall chairs, and snagged a slice of tomato.

“Drama as usual,” she replied. “Corwin’s done a runner, so the entire chain of command had to call and tell me about it.” Hooking an arm over the back of her seat, she regarded Martin carefully before asking, “Why is it you turn green and bolt whenever I get a trump call?”

“Do I?” He picked up the bread knife and sawed the sandwich in half, then put each on a separate plate next to a pile of crisps, and slid one toward her.

“They can’t hear you, you know,” she went on to explain. “Or see you. Unless you walk too close behind me, or I touch you.”

“Good to know.”

The words were tight. He didn’t sit down to eat; instead he busied himself cleaning up the mess he’d made, and avoided looking at her.

For a long moment Aunna considered pressing the issue, but decided against it. After all, she had some odd hang-ups too; if she poked his bear, he’d sure as shit want to poke hers back. So she snagged hold of his shirt sleeve when he got close enough, and stood on the rung of her chair to kiss him instead. He responded, lips parting slightly at her tongue’s request, but there was no heat behind the action, so it ended without escalation.

“Thanks for lunch,” she said, letting go and sitting down. He looked at her and smiled wanly.

“Welcome,” he said, then picked up his plate and left.

* * *

He was listening to _Give 'Em Enough Rope._ Further confirmation, if she’d needed any, that a nerve had been touched at some point. She sighed, and finished off her sandwich as she walked down to the barn.

Sagr nickered at her as she passed by, and she paused to knuckle his forehead and straighten his forelock before continuing on. She hung her chaps on a peg and climbed the ladder to the loft; picked up her gloves and pulled them on before tossing a bale of straw down into each of the empty stalls.

A wave of nausea washed over her, and she saw movement in the shadows behind the stacks. She cursed and, stepping back out of the skylight, shifted the focus of her eyes to pick up the shape in the darkness.

“Duchezz uf Kolvir,” the mass slurred in guttural tones, a voice like rocks on the mountainside.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “Show yourself!”

The shadows coalesced into something vaguely human: Tall, burly, with overlong arms and a squat way of moving. Its skin was hardened leather, shimmered black gold and incandescent. Its pale yellow eyes were well spaced over a short lupine muzzle. She knew its kind, but did not know its name.

“Duchezz uf Kolvir,” it repeated, moving closer, its forelimbs supporting the weight of its torso like a gorilla. “Hrr heff been promess’d. Hrr chal come now.”

“I have not consented to this betrothal,” she spat in return. “My will is my own. None lay claim over me.”

It paused, head cocked to the side. “Hrr cannot refooz,” it said.

Aunna curled up into herself like a linebacker.

“Watch me," she growled.

* * *

Martin lowered the volume on his stereo, and listened.

In the gap between the fourth and fifth song he’d heard a strange noise, and it hadn’t come from the Hi-Fi: a sort of deep-throated braying sound, like someone had strangled a really angry hippopotamus.

Getting up from the wingback sofa, he crossed to the window overlooking the front lawn and poked his head out, but saw nothing amiss. As he moved away however he heard it again, and looked back just in time to see Aunna’s horse tear around the corner of his pasture in a righteous snit. At the end of the barn he skidded to a halt, pivoted on his hind legs, and took off again to the other side.

 _Sagr would protect me with his life_ , she’d told him, in one of those strange memories he couldn’t quite remember getting. Fearing something was terribly wrong, Martin darted from the window and ran: down the stairs, out the door, across the yard.

Sagr spotted him and stopped at the gate. Lathered and heaving, he flung his head and danced from one front foot to the other, teeth grinding. For a moment Martin watched the display with rapt fascination, and understood how such an animal would be valued in the desert tribes of Deig’a. The devotion was fearful.

“Aunna?” he shouted, tearing his eyes away.

The barn doors were open, the interior dark. Martin ducked inside and was immediately struck by the smell of it: metallic and swampy, it assaulted his senses and reeled him back. He gagged involuntarily, threw an arm across his nose and mouth, and switched on the light.

She was sitting on the concrete floor in a pool of blood. Her clothes and hair were saturated with it, and her left leg was contorted grotesquely to the side. Her arms were stretched out behind her, supporting her torso. There was a massive contusion over her left shoulder, spreading down her arm and back.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” he said, eyeing the vaguely body-sized hole in the floor of the loft directly above her.

“Always sooo eloquent,” she replied thickly, without moving.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” he repeated, circling carefully around the mess. “What happened?”

“Floor gave out.”

The response was lethargic, and he shifted his attention back to her. Eyes closed, one side of her face was a decoupage of hair and blood, although he could not see the originating wound. Her leg also had too many hinges; was bent mid-femur, and the bone had jabbed through her jeans. Martin winced, equal parts horror and sympathy.

“Holy _fuck_.”

She pseudo-smiled. “Homer would be proud.”

“Jesus, A,” he hissed, unamused. “How are you not _unconscious_?”

“I was,” she slurred.

“You _were_ ,” Martin repeated, disbelieving.

“I got over it.”

She sounded inebriated, and it was making him uncomfortable.

“Should I…” He looked toward the phone. “Should I call an ambulance?”

This time, her retort was sharp: “Please don’t.”

Martin turned back to find her watching him intensely. It was eerie, but he suddenly had a newfound respect for the woman. _Though she be but little_ …

“Fair warning: I’m not the medic you are,” he admitted, gesturing to his left side. She laughed, winced, and closed her eyes again.

“You want to help?” she asked, still wavering but gradually gaining coherence. “Help me straighten this shit out,” she nodded toward the leg, “then bring me a BLT. Extra bacon.”

He sighed. “Aunna-”

“Is Sagr still having a meltdown?” she cut across him. Martin looked out the door to see the gelding by the fence at the end of the barn, statue-still, watching.

“He’s just standing there,” he said. “Staring at us. It’s a bit creepy.”

“That’s good.”

Martin became aware of a strange clicking sound nearby; a sort of low, hollow popping, like damp wood in a fire. He cast a frown upwards, worried the rest of the loft was about to come down on them.

Only it wasn’t coming from above. It was coming from below. From floor level.

“Is that…” he squinted, gazing down. “Is that .. _you_?”

“Yes.”

He crouched closer, mindful of the blood. Aunna opened her eyes, and met him square on. She adjusted position with obvious resolve, sitting up a little straighter. Then she took hold of the edges of the hole in her jeans and pulled them apart, laying her leg bare from hip to knee. She gestured toward it with a glance.

The bone was slowly knitting itself.

Martin’s expression bloomed into baffled wonder. “You’re a _Shapeshifter_?”

“Welcome to my Big Secret,” she replied, and proceeded to try and reposition her lower leg by repeatedly shoving at the calf with a loose fist. “Can I have that sandwich now?”

“Shit, Aunna!” He lurched forward to bat at her hand, eyes wide with alarm. “Stop!”

“It’s fine,” she countered, a little tartly. “Can’t feel a fucking thing.” She prodded a finger into the wound as if to prove her point, and he felt himself pale.

“That’s morbid,” he stated flatly. “And unsanitary.” Yet he couldn’t take his eyes away.

“Then _you_ do it,” she huffed, resting back against her palms again, winded.

He blanched. “Seriously?”

“Gotta straighten it out or it’ll take ages,” she said, “and I really don’t wanna be here all goddamn night.”

So he grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves from the med kit in the tack room, crouched in the blood to slide his hands carefully under her calf and thigh, and levered the limb into proper alignment. She never so much as flinched, and he found her waiting to meet his gaze when he looked at her after.

“BLT?” he confirmed.

She nodded, and let her eyes slip closed, leaning back onto her elbows in spite of the mess. “Extra extra bacon, please.”

* * *

It took the better part of an hour, but in the end the only evidence remaining that she’d been injured was a pile of crimson-soaked clothes in the wash rack, and the massive bloodstain on the concrete. And while there was nothing for the former but the burn pile, no amount of power washing was going to change the latter anytime soon.

The courier in the loft had been removed, no questions asked. Martin assumed it had to do with the rising conflict in Amber she’d mentioned, and she didn’t see the need to elaborate for him. He dragged it off to some innocuous point in Shadow, and left it to rot.

The horses had been brought in and fed and turned back out; except for Sagr, whose exertions had earned him a bath and some grooming while, over triple-bacon BLTs and a six pack of beer, Aunna explained how she’d come to discover her ability.

She told him about his Aunt Mirelle, and how she’d been the first to know. She told him about Oberon’s wish to keep it a secret when he found out, and the tutor from Weirholden he’d enlisted to instruct her. She told him that she was the first of their kin to shapeshift innately, and that he, Martin, was only the fifth person to see her do it.

“And the fourth?” he asked.

“A Lady of Helgram named Dara,” she replied, holding a carrot over her shoulder through the bars of Sagr’s stall. The horse took it between his teeth and crunched peacefully. “She and I .. we have an arrangement of sorts.”

“Am I allowed to ask?” Martin smirked, and took a swig of his beer.

“We help each other out, from time to time,” Aunna answered with a shrug. “Something comes up for her I can lend an assist on, I do. And vice-versa. It’s all very hands washing hands.” She rolled her bottle between her palms before taking a drink and adding, “She’s why I didn’t have a spare trump to give you, back in Topanga.”

He nodded, looking distant a moment. Then, “The night I showed up,” he said, still pensive with memories from that time. “She was here. You called her, and she helped you save me.”

“You were a _mess_ , Marty,” Aunna explained. “Whoever stabbed you hadn’t meant for you to live. They’d poisoned you, and it was beyond anything I could do on my own. So yeah, I called Dara. Because she’s Chaosian, and a better Shapeshifter than I am, and I thought maybe she could force your body to reject whatever was trying to kill you.”

“…But?” he prompted.

“But you freaked right the fuck out,” she continued, cracking open a new beer and setting the empty in the case. “She’d put a hand on you, and you’d _flip your shit_. Kept howling that she was a demon come to drag you off to hell or some such-”

“And that’s when I hit you,” he remembered. She made an affirmative sound. “Still sorry about that.”

Aunna snorted and gestured to the floor. “Still had worse.”

He tilted his head in concession. “Point.”

“While we’re on the subject, though,” she resumed, “and now that the horse is out of the barn, I suppose I ought to thank you.”

“For the BLT and beer?” he said.

“That too,” she chuckled, and he grinned back. “But no. For crashing my idyllic existence eleven months ago,” she said. “For following me after I’d ditched you at that diner in NorHo. For _not_ buying me a beer.”

“ _Really_?” he laughed incredulously. “ _That’s_ what did it?”

“What can I say? I like a guy who doesn’t tow the same tired line.” She wiped her palms on her jeans and stood; looked through the bars of Sagr’s stall and, satisfied by what she saw, raised the latch on his door. “Plus, the clusterfuck you presented me with last summer gave me a reason to push through some things I’ve had a bit of a mental block about. That’s gonna be nice.”

She muttered something lowly in the desert dialect as the horse stepped into the aisle, and held her beer in one hand as she placed the other on the crest of his neck. Martin took it as a cue and threw the take-out boxes in the garbage, then picked up the six pack.

“But why?” he asked.

She furrowed her brow, perplexed. “Why save you?”

“Why _thank_ me?” he clarified.

As if by response, Sagr butted him with his head and stuck out his tongue. The man looked at it a moment, then at Aunna. Cautiously, he reached out and pinched it between thumb and forefinger as he’d seen her do countless times, and the gelding responded by bobbing his head back and forth, just like he did with her.

Aunna smiled, and met Martin’s gaze as she stroked the horse’s neck.

“Because we can’t be solitary creatures all the time, Marty,” she said. “Eventually, we gotta let someone in.”


	6. Epilogue - Just Another Future Song

It was all about trust. She understood that now. So did he.

In the early hours of autumn, with a sky paling blue to the east, Martin ran his fingers into her post-coital hair and said,

“It was Brand.”

Pause. Then, “How?”

“He constructed a trump of me based on conversations he’d had with people who’d known me as a boy, and tried to kill me through it. That’s why I leave when people call you. I can feel it happening, and it makes me…”

He trailed off. Took a deep breath, and willed his pulse to slow.

After a moment, she responded, “I’ll take them elsewhere from now on.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He continued to weave her hair around his fingers. She lifted her head off his chest to look at him.

“Is there something else?”

“I think I’ve met Dara before,” he told the ceiling. “In Shadow, a few hours before I got the call from Brand.” His head moved to face her, brows knit close. “I think she might have helped him.”

There was a hint of violence in his eyes; behind the blueness, she saw red, and knew too intimately what fury felt like to ignore it.

“You want revenge,” she said.

He looked back to the ceiling, pondering. Eventually responded, “I want to know _why_.”

Aunna sighed and lay back down. “I’ll find out what I can,” she said.

He curled her tightly, and kissed her head in silent gratitude.

**Author's Note:**

> Aunna & Martin's story continues in the 'Just Another Future Song' series with 'Waiting for the Gift'.
> 
> The overarching 'And We Are Merely Players' series continues with Tristan's POV, in 'A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall'.
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)


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